Unspoken
by Arget Vindr
Summary: Avoxes live in fear every day of their slavery. But not Lavinia. She lost all fear when they took her home, her family and her life. When Katniss is chosen for the Games, hatred fills her soul. Is Katniss Everdeen really her enemy?
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1 – Tributes for Slaughter

A soft violet tulip resting in a vase, a mirror shining with serene brightness and a simple girl with dark red hair. I am an orphan. I am a muted slave. Avox. Traitor.

The door opens and the Capitols who own this place don't look at me, they don't acknowledge my existence. I stare at my feet as they discuss the party the night before.

The man who sits first has chosen the animal look of a dog, but a cute Labrador rather than a wolf or a Boxer as I've seen elsewhere in the Capitol. His skin droops from his cheeks and his eyes have been glistened and grown wider to mimic the breed. It looks almost hostile at first glance, but his companion hardly notices when he lets his tongue lazily droop onto his huge lips.

His female companion has opted for a mismatch of blindingly bright colours; bright purple smudged lips, a bleach-blonde wig with messy ringlets, golden eyeliner that looks more like eye shadow, and a strange blue dress that resembles a pastry. It would be fashionable also if her make up wasn't smudged. They all stumble into the main room groaning and holding their heads.

"What a party…" the man slurs, "Did you – did you see Flavius?"

They both laugh slightly, and then clutch their heads harder. "His first games, of 'course he's gonna get Twelve." She answers sarcastically.

I cannot leave without permission, and their talk is so dull and meaningless I wonder sometimes why they still keep going with their lives. I hate them enough to scratch them to death. But what would that do? Make my horrible life unbearably worse. I clench my hands into fists.

The man presses some buttons that he knows off by heart and a huge TV appears, lighting up the spotless apartment and a bubbly reporter announcing the Hunger Games and the Tributes. All I can do is stare at the floorboards as they discuss who they are and Districts and Tokens. I can't look upon the faces of any more Tributes, I cannot watch any more Games, I've seen so many gruesome deaths that I don't want to have more entering my nightmares.

Again, he presses some more buttons and two reddish drinks appear with an umbrella peeking over the top. The cocktail bubbles and smells revoltingly like tomatoes and kiwi fruit. They down the potion in one.

With a sigh, a shiver and a smile, they both seemed to have instantly recovered from their hangover. "I hear Seneca Crane has an excellent idea for the finale of the Games. He doesn't show off or discuss it, but it's going to be fabulous." The woman informs him, her slurring a distant memory. "Are you sponsoring this year?"

"Perhaps, I never go in until the last second, the interviews at least."

"I know that, Cara, but which one are you leaning towards?"

The man named Cara considers for a moment, and then shrugs. "Hmmm, well Cato and Clove look like a safe bet. But the big one from Eleven looks savage, maybe he'll be lucky in the arena. And the one from Four looks smart enough to outwit each one of them."

"Bit wimpy isn't he?" she snarls at the TV.

Cara grins. "That's what you said about Beetee."

"That was a one off!"

"Safe bet though, don't you think?"

For a while they were entranced with the television. The female reporter got joined by special guests who discussed the doomed Tributes, their terrified family, confused friends and possible tragic lovers left behind. But once they reach Twelve, the conversation dries up. So does my throat.

Pictures flash on and off the Tributes who are crying, concentrated, or just crazy about the games. The program finishes with an anthem flourish and then darkness. I can't remember any of their names. I don't want to know them. I don't want to look up from the floor.

"Let's go to Tigris! The fur underwear is a _must_!" she stood up as she spoke and slipped into the wardrobe, Cara waits until she reappears then follows her to the door. He barks to me: "Clean my rooms then get out." Then slams the door behind him.

I obey – the room is beyond a mess, sick, alcohol bottles, a few emptied needles, confetti and glitter everywhere. The only objects that have stayed decent are the mirror and the tulip. They both still entrance me with their simplicity and yet radiant beauty. In an hour, the room is decent, in two, it's clean, and after three it's spotless and shining upon every surface. Then, I begin searching for tins.

Years ago, when I was only fourteen and beginning my second month of being Avox, I was suicidal, I hated what my life had become and wished it to end. I didn't want to slave away for these slobs; I vowed to never give them the satisfaction. But I then came across a tin purely by accident. I hadn't adapted well to the slop they served to us all and I was desperate for anything else, so without any second thought of the implications of stealing it, I took it with me. Security wasn't tight for us, nobody cared what Avoxes did, but if we were caught, then we would be punished in plain sight of other Avoxes. A guard caught me, and he should've leaded me to the nearest flogging post, but something was different in his eyes. He didn't take me away, he told me harshly to go back to the Avox Shacks as fast as I could. I was lucky that day; pity doesn't come from a peacekeeper, and I wish I could thank him, but I've never seen him since. That night I did run home and I ate a lamb stew that my mother used to make, and felt a warmth blossom in my heart. It felt like home. It tasted of hope.

Ever since I have collected tins and sometimes, when depressed, I devour a few to calm myself. They remind me of what I live for – I let myself think of that impossible Peacekeeper, that man who could've punished me and killed me, but didn't; somewhere there was decency and goodness that nobody except those of my family or Avoxes have possessed. My belief is that he's not the only one, that there are others that still have kindness, even in the Capitol.

But I'm always afraid; scared of the constant abuse and punishment that I have to watch. Deciding to let a spark of hope illuminate my drab, black life isn't common among the Avoxes. The Capitol destroys each one a tiny bit at a time until they're all machines. Without emotion, without hope and without life; I can't be that way, I won't.

The other Peacekeepers of the Capitol hardly care about if I smuggle food in or not, most of them have already realised we're no longer rebellious; except for me, it seems. But I still take only a tiny portion, just enough so I can sneak it into some uncomfortable places.

I spread my palm onto an innocent looking painting of a lake and a fisherman lightly, too hard and the panel will lock, too gentle and it won't open at all. I hear the click, and I sigh with relief; although I know full well that most of the younger Capitol citizens don't bother to put the setting of pressure very high, I still panic at that crucial moment.

Inside loads of tins of meat stew, some packets of dried beef jerky and other foods are stacked on one side. The other is a box marked with 'Party morphling' and another marked with 'Backup'. I take one tin of stew and two of jerky, I leave the drugs alone, and it takes me a minute to put them both into my loin.

Night falls and the walk to the bus stop is a long, arduous one; free of civilized Capitol people of course. It's painful to walk at first, with the tin scratching against my side, but after a while, it reduces to an itch, but the tin does scrape me on the inside of my thigh and I feel a little blood seep down my leg. When I reach the bus stop, I sit down next to many others who have finished their work, I don't look at the Avoxes around me, and they don't look at me. The bus is crowded as usual, and I sit again not looking at the others around me. I wait until my stop, exactly 12, and then I get off.

The Avox Shacks had been outside the Capitol since before the end of the Dark Days over a century ago, they are all the same; simple houses built with anything that the Capitol doesn't want. Some of them are even made of the remains of the Dark Days, rubble from houses long lost to bombs that 13 had used. There were hundreds of them, spreading into the distance and most of them were yet to be filled. They were dumped far away from anybody civilised, a few miles away from the Capitol walls. The Shacks can hold about sixteen in one house, usually six women and ten men; and mine is the seventeenth on the left. Each muddy road is filled with the hopeless, the lost and the sick; people who have forgotten laughter and their happiness, who only know hate, hunger, the Games and work. I cannot look at them anymore; their eyes are so empty, so sad that it's unbearable. I just keep walking, ignoring the upturned faces that have noticed my movement, ignoring the contorted weeping of a newly maimed slave.

When I enter my Shack, I let out a sigh of relief as I see Gibbs, my one and only friend that I trust in this dark place. Gibbs was working in an underground resistance in District 7, and his life as a lumberjack showed in his arm muscles being huge. He was organising an uprising and selling food the Peacekeepers had thrown out of their plates. Apparently there wasn't anything wrong with it, just a few days older than it should've been, it was edible though and that was all people cared about. He was a part of a ten men operation and Gibbs wasn't the ringleader - he was killed in public along with the youngest of their band - but he was a key member, who thought up most of the ideas. They made a few Avoxes as a reminder to the people of 7, including Gibbs. It was assumed that he was made an Avox because the Capitol thought that at least one of his twenty four sons, daughters and grandchildren would've been in the reaping at some point. But after almost fifteen years of being an Avox, he's broken from being forced to see his family and friends grow old without him. He is the strongest, bravest and wisest of us all; and he encourages us to never give up despite how he has lost.

When we met he immediately decided he liked me even though I was Capitol raised, I've never really known why, as really he should hate me because of it. Everyone else in our Shack despised my existence and held me responsible for the crimes the Capitol had committed. I was a child; only fourteen when I came here and they treated me as they would a murderer. I still cannot trust them because they can never trust me; I am of the Capitol no matter what I do, if I saved their lives a dozen times it would be no different. Except for Gibbs, without him I would surely be dead now, I owe him so much. Gibbs was, of course, the only one who I told about my smuggling, and when I did, he grinned and showed me his own stash of knives and wood. At first I thought he was trying to make weapons, but I know he prefers carving things than causing pain and death, he knows he can't be rebellious anymore and knows he won't get away with it if he tries. Others would probably rat him out for extra portions of slop or even just some morphling and he'd be killed; murdered just for some stupid food or drugs. If that happened, then I would kill whoever was responsible, then myself. Everybody in this Shack either knows that I'm crazy and clever enough to do it, so they don't dare touch or insult him; or like Gibbs as much as I do and would kill the traitor as I would.

I see Gibbs concentrating fiercely on his carving and I don't need to arouse him. He nods his 'hello' to me and continues. I spend a few moments on my bed, staring up at the one above me; I hate the Reaping. Most days I can live with, but today reminds me of why I'm here, why I lay in a moth eaten bed without a father, without a mother, without my brother. Orphaned, alone, lost.

I'm not alone though, there are so many around me who can't stand today, because at some point, they have to watch the highlights; everybody has to see the highlights. If anyone doesn't, they're taken and flogged for not doing so in front of everyone in the Avox Shacks and forced to watch every single day of the games for the next couple of weeks alone in a cemented room. No contact with people outside, only food, water and the screen. It's a torture nobody wishes to endure, but still they refuse to switch on the TV which they know has only one channel. They cannot stand to see children get dressed up for their impending deaths. I haven't been hurt by it like they have, I haven't had to sit and watch as my neighbours, friends and old, forgotten school mates were forced to fight to the death in a arena far from home. I have seen strangers do that, but nothing more.

Gibbs nudges me out of my daydreams and points to the screen.

I shake my head and try to ignore the world around me.

Gibbs shakes me more violently and shoves a note into my face.

I feel cold by what it says. He was taken from his family and hasn't seen them in ten long years. None of them had been forced into the Games and only one of his kin remains, this year he's eighteen and if he survives another Reaping, he'll be able to become a lumberjack. He'll be fine and Gibbs will be able to live his muted life in peace that some other Avoxes cannot have. He will know all is well and nobody in the Games can harm his family, he can only hope that his family won't become Avox. Gibbs told them how to survive and taught them to keep their heads down to avoid death. If they're as smart and confident as he is, then I believe they'll be alive as well.

The note says in his rough handwriting: "**Karnack**". Gibbs' grandson that he last saw when he was going into the Reaping at just thirteen.

We turn on the TV and hold each other's hands tightly as the highlights repeat. Districts flash past: luxury makers of District 1 – Glimmer and Marvel; the miners of District 2 – Cato and Clove; the factory workers of District 3. By now a crowd has gathered of our Shack, of those brave enough to watch also; fishers of District 4; the electrical power of District 5; District 6, Transport; then at last lumberjack 7. His old hand tightens on mine; he's shaking as well from the stresses of his ancient sixty years, I'm nervous too. Gibbs has had too much taken away for his hope and soul to leave now, it would destroy us all. We both hold our breath as the woman dips her hand into the huge Reaping ball and reveals –

Another boy; somebody whose name I simply don't hear over the thudding of my own starving heartbeat. Gibbs pulls me into a tight hug that I return; the crowd we aroused stands before us also relieved and patting Gibbs lightly as he sobs into my shoulder. I let him, and think of what Karnack might do now he's free from the Games. Would he get married to a sweetheart? Would he have children? Children his wife and he would have to inevitably have to send into the Games? Would he prefer loneliness than having lovers? Would he survive, grow old in a place where the old don't linger? At least Karnack is alive, well and not able to see his grandfather like this; sobbing into a strangers shoulder.

My eye is caught by the final District 12; I watch as the hand is dipped into the Reaping ball, it comes out, and a tiny girl called Primrose Everdeen is called. My throat closes and dries as I watch her tiny form climb the huge stairs; twelve – just twelve years old and going into an arena, to the death. Nobody can breathe in that District; they watch gawking as the mere child goes to the platform. Even I cannot help it, she's so innocent and beautiful and scared and so alone and lost. Why would they do this? Why would anyone force this girl to be killed? Why doesn't anyone volunteer?

Wish granted.

She steps up and forces Primrose away, she pushes her without grace and they both know what she's done. She's announced as Katniss; Katniss Everdeen. But I know her by another name, one I invented and one she won't lose so instantly.

She was my final hope, the only one who could help me. She is my Killer.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

I cannot help but wonder why. Why would the Capitol decide to torment a girl to this extent as to make her Killer fight in the Games for her to watch? Why force her to remember those days of constant travel, without food, water and sometimes even shelter? Or that very moment when the spike pierced straight through my brother's body? Isn't it enough for them to keep Fynnick's body in a ditch somewhere I can never find? Isn't it enough to keep me alive so I never can mourn or join his grave, or my Mother's, or Father's?

This has all been done to break me – the girl has been forced into the Games by my hand - or at least, the Capitol wants me to think this. This is what the Capitol _wants _me to do, think about my horrible past and how I became Avox to suppress any rebellion I might have in mind. They must know about the smuggling… they must know everything about me: how?

I sit on Bus One, which means only one stop, one job, one priority; The Training Centre. I've been considering all this and more ever since that girl volunteered. I am conscious of the pained, emotionless faces around me. Some of the lost here had seen some of their kin, friends and even lost lovers dragged into this place; this disguised torture chamber, and never come out. Does my Killer leave family behind? Friends or lovers? Is that little girl, her sister, I think, worth getting murdered on TV for?

Primrose Everdeen… her face illuminates my mind; her innocent, good, kind face, everything about her that I can guess from this distance. The people of 12 staring in horror at the name and parting gladly as my Killer ran through their midst, shouting for them to stop. She tried to attack the boy dragging her away, trying to escape his clutches so she can deny the volunteering her sister offered. She cannot possibly be bad if she wanted her sibling to live, like someone I used to know... from another lifetime…

His familiar face blossoms in my memories; dark red hair, porcelain skin, the only difference is our eyes. He has Mother's dark green, like the leaves in summertime, my mother used to say; and I have my father's hazel brown, like the hard bark of the forest. I wish I could go and see the forests like in picture books I used to read. Oh, Fynnick…

I snap out of my dark, grieving thoughts roughly, forcing myself away from the immortal grief in my tarnished soul. My eyes already beginning to water; I rub them angrily, I can't remember – it will only make me go crazy.

The duties, I've heard, are more or less the same as I'm used to, without any constant bickering about the Games and, unfortunately, no tins for me to collect. And silence. A lot more calm silence as the twenty four Tributes ready themselves for the Games. Some don't try to prepare themselves for survival, and instead brace themselves for… whatever will come afterward.

Most of the procedure that I'm used to is the same as well when I arrive; a huge man gives all of us orders that we obey. He tells us that we get a floor and a manager who tells us where we are needed the most, and then we work until he dismisses us. I'm assigned twelve – despite what I hope against, I'm not surprised - and I'm ordered by the manager to prepare the rooms with three other Avox for the entire 12 team.

The Capitol has what my father called an unhealthy obsession with the Hunger Games to an extent that the rooms the Tribute teams live in aren't touched until the next year. The apartments are put on display to people with the money and power to pay for viewing them. It's revolting to think that Capitol people come into these rooms and look at what dead children last touched, wore and used to kill others. It's not even human to believe that the Capitol does this and displays the Tributes clothing and weapons on display, they say that it's a memorial to those who died for the Games, and gives honour to those who won; but the Hunger Games aren't honourable or ethnical. I've seen far too many to realise that. The mannequins and glass cabinets have already disappeared and I can only hope that some of what they wore is returned to their families. Whoever they were in whatever district would appreciate it, I know I would.

The work is arduous and time consuming; it took me nearly the whole day to just scrub the year-old mould and grime and dust from the apartment. But it takes me longer to face the yellowish tears stained into the pillow, and it makes me wonder many depressing thoughts: which Tribute lived here? How long did they live? How much did she or he cry? Who did they cry for? A knot churns my stomach as I stare at it, and wonder of who slept here. I continue with the chores, the effort nearly killing me with the strength I must put in to forget all my dark thoughts of the morning.

Eventually the room is finished, and I look around the spotless, sun bathed room with a sadness that cannot be explained. I know that many tributes have lived and slept here, I also know that many Avoxes have waited on them. And I cannot help but wonder if the Tribute that will stay in this room will live, and if the Tribute in here will die. But those thoughts aren't as awful as the fact that this floor has housed only two victors; only one being alive still, the rest are dead, some I have seen die in horrifying ways. Children don't deserve the horrible deaths they see or endure; nobody deserves to live with the pain I've seen on TV.

Except one; my Killer deserves no sympathy.

The Avoxes I have to work with on this floor are people I've seen near my Shack. I don't know if this is another strange taunt of the Capitol, but they're as distressed as I am about the Games. One has dark grey hair and silver eyes, she's old, I hear she's one of the oldest Avox; almost thirty years of slavery, and has a hunched back from working for so long. Her face is slightly mouse like, thin and prominent; she could've been pretty once but she does look lost and absent, like she's dead already. The Ghost looks at me once, and doesn't again. The other is a man, he's tall and thin, but with thick glasses that have been cracked and haven't been clean in a long time; he looks like he's from the technology District 3 and he also has a vacant look in those dull, huge brown eyes. I read about owls in picture books when I was young, and his huge eyes and heart shaped face are as curious and wonderful as the owls I used to know. He smiles at me, and at once I decide he is my friend.

Owl, Ghost and I walk together toward the nearest TV, (that is surrounded by at least fifty others who are as pale as we are) quietly nervous and with regret that cannot be forgotten. We watch the highlights of the City Circle Parade, as we must to avoid a flogging, and I cannot help but gasp at my Killers' costume.

The twilight of evening is serene and relaxed, but nothing compares with the beauty and intense fury of the coal miner Tributes of 12. They flicker and shine, the very wind having an effect on the fire upon their backs. Their hands are locked tightly; neither seems to acknowledge the contact as they smile and wave to the gullible, shallow audience. They catch kisses blown from random people spotted in the Capitol who throw them giddy from the excitement. Their chariot, with the other Districts, continues into a semi-circle around the president's mansion and a platform where President Snow reads his speech. He reads with the usual patriotic confidence and charm. But the Tributes are the main attraction, and 12 gets far too much face time than is needed.

When the chariots depart, so do the Avoxes; we are herded out of the room and are ordered by our managers. I'm sent to the kitchens for most of the night.

Shouting, sweating chefs order around various Avox to collect and deliver dishes to the District 12 team. Most of the people I work amongst are prettier than most of the faces of Avox I'm used to, and I'm guessing that's why they're here, because they're better eye candy for the people who actually have to look at us. But I'm not here because of my looks, an extra 'special' request has defiantly ensured I get to see my Killer in the flesh and as close as possible, to rub vinegar into the wound; so the Capitol can make me watch as I'm torn apart from the inside out.

Just like my own personal Games.

I avoid going out into the dining room for most of the night; usually by swapping plates with other Avox and staying out of the way, trying to hide with the shadows. But even I cannot dodge the head chef, and he comes right into my face and shoves the crowning dessert into my arms. Then he orders me to light it at the very top and informs me that the alcohol should burn the rest of the cake. I nod; then proceed to the exit.

If I can get this over with, I can probably never see my Killer except at the bloodbath that she'll almost certainly die in. That is the moment that I can't wait for, when she'll feel the helplessness I felt. And then the life will be snatched from her at the most painful second, when she begs for death.

The collection of gory dreams I picture behind my eyes makes me shake with excitement and parched vengeance, and I nearly let the cake topple because of my giddiness. But I luckily remember the whiplash of leather upon thin air and then the wincing pain burning my skin, and I straighten up immediately.

The doors open outward and reveal a long table where the main players in the Games sit staring at the cake I hold. I look around at the faces and try to remember their names and their job considering keeping my Killer alive in the arena. One woman has dyed her skin a sickly pea green and smiles politely to the talk that's going on as I set the plate down on the table; a thinner woman has had her hair dyed aqua blue and tattoos have been painted onto her eyebrows. One of the men reeks of every beverage I can think of and has dim, dangerous grey eyes.

But there is only one who stands out the most and he wears hardly any make up at all; his hair is brown and thick, styled very simple and plain. Yet he does wear a little bit of golden eyeliner that makes the flecks of brown in his light green eyes come out, it's intriguing to look at, and I find myself looking for far too long than an Avox should to their masters. Feeling my cheeks burn, I light the top of the cake with a burning metal stick with more haste than perhaps the head chef would want, but all I want to do is get out of there.

"Is that alcohol making the cake burn?" she's right there – right beside me, talking to me. "That's the last thing I wa– Oh! I know you!"

My Killer looks up at me.

All the blood has drained from my skin and it starts to crawl uncontrollably, my throat is dry and I cannot breathe. I'm thankful that I'm no longer holding the cake because it would've dropped by now. Her eyes widen as she realises who I am; realises what she did all those years ago. Somehow I find the strength to shake my head and go into the corridor between the kitchen and the dining room. The device used for burning the cake is loose in my hand.

My legs get weaker as I walk, and I lean against the wall to try to keep myself standing. Then I hear from outside the room a squeaky, Capitolish female voice spit; "Don't be ridiculous, Katniss. How could you possibly know an Avox?"

Then I slide to the floor and begin to cry.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Ghost has concern painted in her eyes as she looks at my tear drenched face. Owl is just as worried about me and he helps me onto my feet, taking the fire stick from my tight palm. But I don't care, I want to die here now, I don't want to keep living anymore in this world where I'm used and abused and hated because of past mistakes. I can't stand to go back and look at _her_ disgusting face; the one of my nightmares, the one that murdered another innocent me so long ago.

I try to walk, but huge splinters of pain race up my right leg so violently I collapse into a kneeling position. I feel salty tears in my eyes; great, now I'm in agony and will be for a few weeks more. Again, my two friends catch me and they both help me onto my feet again, I lean on Owl; then Ghost feels a burned out hole in my right trouser-leg with her old, thin fingers until I gasp with the electric pain that makes me hiss. Then, with a serious look in her eyes, she leaves into the kitchen for a minute or two before returning with a handful of herbs. I look over them and give her a questioning, unsure look; she's a healer?

In answer, Ghost gives me a rare reassuring smile.

She chews on the herbs, spits out the mushy lump into her hand, and then slathers the mixture onto my wounded leg. Instantly a cool sensation makes me sigh as the herbs do their work; what they are and what they're doing, I'll probably never know, but the pain numbs enough so I am able to stand without Owl's help. When I'm on my feet, I grin to my newfound friends; which seems to be a crude thanks for the agony and time they've saved me.

But then we all hear a noise, a shuffling of feet and the distinct click of a door being opened.

I run my eyes around the area. Without being caught and indefinitely flogged loitering, I decide what we must do; they look at me expectantly as I mouth. "Hide."

They don't need to be told twice, we all go in separate directions into different rooms. I go into a room that doesn't seem touched; even though this comforts me, I still feel my heart thump loudly against my ears, and I try to hold my breath to still this beating, but instead end up heaving what seems like hurricanes of air out of my lungs. The footsteps tap quietly; more than just one person's I'm sure now. Then louder, and louder, and then come right up against the door. The doorknob turns, and I try to look busy, picking up a leotard and some boots left on the floor in a pile.

Then my Killer steps into her room.

For a moment, I watch her; examine my enemy up close for the first time. Her long dark brown hair is tied into a classic braid that I saw her wearing at the City Circle Parade; she's smaller and thinner than I thought at first, and she wears a simple forest green shirt with black trousers. I see scars all over her arms and hands; for a moment I wonder why a girl from 12 has such scars, but then I remember when I first saw her. In the forest, with a bow and a quiver of arrows; I thought poaching was illegal in most Districts.

"Oh, sorry," my Killer stutters. "I was supposed to get those back to Cinna. I'm sorry. Can you take them back to him?"

Despite my hatred, I nod, and leave the room.

This time, I'm not as shocked or afraid as I expected to be. Whether it's from my Killer's nervousness towards me or just my manifesting bravery, I'm glad that I'm unafraid. I walk with the leotard and boots toward the stylist's door (which I have to know of) then open it to reveal another apartment.

Like my Killer's room, it's large and has little furnishings; but this stylist has a coffee table and a curved loveseat, the table can't be seen through the papers which are full of drawings of my Killer wearing different outfits and in different poses. Some are scribbled out angrily and scrunched up into a ball; others are on the floor, creating a rug of colour and pencil. I pick one up and look at how the curves of the dress compliment my Killer's tiny frame, making her figure more attractive. Little notes and annotations are scrawled around the dress, different layers described in detail of their quantity and shades of colour.

I put it down carefully where I found it, and then find another that catches my eye. The one I look at is a red V-neck dress with large, marshmallow shaped sleeves that has been obviously discarded. I try to understand what this Cinna was trying to do, but no matter how I look at it, I still think it looks too heavy and ugly. There's no pattern on the garment and it's been drawn as if the fabric is shiny and thin. I shake my head; I've seen many Hunger Games and many failed stylist designs. This is one of them, I'm sure. Maybe he's not as good as I first assumed, his first costume might've been just inspiration and luck at work rather than creativity.

"I know." I jump at the sound of his voice, and drop the drawing I held; it floats to the ground within a few awkward seconds. I bow my head toward my master, expecting the sharp pain of a slap or the hard thump of some random object on my bone. A hand picks up the paper; does he intend to hit me with it somehow? Or just throw it in my face for thinking? I close my eyes to try to hide from the pain that will come soon.

He sighs, "trust me, I know. It's horrible, isn't it? The sleeves are wrong, the colour's wrong, everything's wrong." He offers the paper to me, "What do you think?"

That takes me completely unawares.

What do I think? That's the first time somebody non Avox has asked me for my opinion in years. I look up from gazing at the ground and stare in disbelief at the stylist. He smiles at my shock and pushes the paper closer towards me. This must be a trick; if I take the paper and begin to change it, he'll call the Peacekeepers and say I stole and damaged property from him, then they'll execute me on sight. Then all I can imagine is that Owl or Ghost would be forced to wipe bits of me from the floor. I don't trust him despite how handsome he may appear.

This must be on my face, because the stylist puts a kind hand on my shoulder and says, "Don't worry, I won't tell anyone."

Blackmail, so that's his game. He'll say that now, but later on he'll use that design against me, Capitol people always lie to get their way; mostly to themselves, my father used to say. He'll make me do things that I've heard has happened to other pretty Avox girls in exchange for his silence. Is he trustworthy? Will he do… that to me?

My face betrays me again, and he raises his arms in surrender. "Fine, OK, you can go now. I'll do this myself." He sounds truly dismayed.

I go towards the door, my head telling me that this is the right thing to do to stay out of trouble; but my heart? I feel that that dress isn't right, and I don't like that imperfection that's nagging at me at the back of my head. How can I deny an opportunity to do something useful? I turn to see the man rubbing his eyes angrily; and although I'm afraid of the consequence, I snatch the drawing from the coffee table it laid on and sit down beside him. I take a lone pen and make some changes.

An hour passes swiftly, and the pen moves almost by itself as I draw the dress I think is what Cinna is trying to create. The crumpled page becomes too cramped and at some point, I spend some time copying the dress onto another sheet. Now and then, he makes a comment and writes a little note for himself, and asks an occasional question, that I cannot really answer, but is silent for most of the time I draw. The more time that goes, the more relaxed I become around him. Drawing something I like, letting my imagination and knowledge my guide; when I am done at last, I'm proud of what I've made.

I changed the sleeves by making them thinner so instead of being large marshmallows, they resemble thin lettuce leaves that are loose at the end. They're shorter by far as well, stopping just past the end of my Killer's shoulder. The colour is the same dark wine red, but the shape at the lower part of the dress I've changed to become flatter so it compliments her bony body. By far my Killer appears mature by many years in this dress, taller and much more feminine to the eye. I wrote beside it a few other notes explaining the accessories that would suit the gown perfectly; sapphire stone jewellery I thought would work well and make everything stand out much more, I also wrote down how a cape matching that of the gowns colour would be a fine match to a fine dress on colder nights.

Cinna looks at the picture, and although I expect more major changes from the adept stylist, he only makes little notes again of materials and shades of colour, barely touching the drawing itself. Then he goes to sign his work, but pauses: "What's your name?"

Names have power; that's one of the many things I've learned in my life that my father told me and I'm unsure still of whether I can trust this genius dressmaker with mine. He's had far too many chances to call the Peacekeepers to be a threat I think, so I swallow my ambitious fears and write down Laviniain the corner of the paper.

He smiles, "I'm Cinna, and pleased to meet another designer." I smile back shyly; my ambition as a child was to become a stylist like him, of course that was before everything went wrong and before I realised the Games was a televised child slaughter. Who knows, maybe if I didn't become an Avox and was as ignorant as other Capitol people; then maybe I could've been him in a few years, designing for Tributes or other well-known Capitol celebrities, living in luxury with my own Avoxes to order around. Then, after a short pause, he reaches toward my hair cautiously; I flinch and recoil from his hand. "I'm sorry, it's just the red of your hair is... unique." I relax a little from his river of compliments, but I don't want to let him feel my hair, he doesn't press; but he does look at my head with curious eyes. "Can I show you something?"

I nod, wondering if this was all a good idea after all.

Cinna leads me into his bedroom (which does make me more nervous) but it hasn't got any designs littering the floor at all; on the contrary, it's a very neat room, but does have a large, soft canvas at the far wall. The picture is surrounded by a hundred differently coloured pencils and many more rubber shavings. And what's upon the canvas makes me gasp.

My Killer is dressed in what can only be described as a towering inferno climbing up her body; reds, oranges, yellows, shades of gold, and white hot blues cover her body from bottom to top. I assume that he intends to blend the colours of the gown together and make it into a dress that resembles sunrise or twilight. But then I read that he wants many jewels to be used onto the gown, sewn into the fabric so that it shines like a fire would. The dress itself is small and goblet-shaped, he's drawn individual teardrops of colour, and each is a slightly different shade and on paper it really does match fire. The sandals are upon her feet are also a reddish colour, and there is minimal make up on her face and body which makes sense if people want to recognise her in the arena. Parts of the dress aren't coloured in completely and some details haven't been completed. It's unfortunate that the design isn't finished, but it should be in a few days, at least. She looks radiant within this picture I admit, but I know better than that to fall for this mask.

"I'm trying to capture each aspect of fire; and after staring at it for hours on end, I think I have the idea. But with all the reds I've used, yours is a much more passionate colour, more like the darker aftermath at the tip of a flame; it should suit Katniss nicely."

My smile turns bitter as I realise that she'll be wearing my hair colour, and I dislike it, she's taken too much away, I want to keep that part of my own life at least. Maybe I'm paranoid, I don't own the colour and I cannot stop designers using it; but it seems as if my Killer's trying to take everything I have left away from me. Cinna notices my dark scowl as well; "You don't like Katniss, do you?"

I clench my teeth and consider writing down why I hate my Killer for Cinna so he'll understand, as I want somebody to share my burden who can talk of it; but decide against it when I think of the laws I broke getting out of the Capitol and eluding the hovercrafts through the Districts. I just shake my head in answer.

The lack of an answer annoys him, I can tell, but he doesn't let it show in his voice. "I don't know what happened to you. I'll probably never know; but Katniss would never sit by while somebody innocent was in danger, I'm sure."

I look at him with venomous eyes, and shake my head again, feeling fury burn my bones. He doesn't understand what I had to go through; he doesn't know anything about me.

"Why do you hate her so much?" he asks.

I begin walking away, toward the door, away from him and his unjustified defences for my Killer.

"Think about it, Katniss feels guilty about whatever she did, she's not Capitol. She doesn't enjoy hurting people, few people do, Lavinia, she's just like–"

I shut the door before I hear that last word.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

As the interviews stalk closer, I'm ever increasing with annoyance at Cinna's words. My Killer ruined my life, she did nothing as I was mutilated and because of that I'm suffering more than she'll ever know. She is a coward and a puppet of the Capitol, then and now, I won't ever forgive her for what she failed to do. Because of her my twin brother is lying in a forgotten ditch and I'm wiping after Capitol socialite vomit piles.

And yet…

I've become so unsure of my own feelings since Cinna told me something almost a week ago, even now I can hear his voice ringing in my ears; _"She doesn't enjoy hurting people, Lavinia, few people do, she's just like–" _me. That final word I didn't need to hear, but now that's all I can listen to day in, day out. And I don't know why; my Killer isn't like me, she'll never know me or be anything like me: she is my eternal enemy. She is evil. But his cursed words have twisted my head into something that I don't even know anymore. I feel as if I'm different because of them words; _"She doesn't enjoy hurting people, Lavinia." _

Doesn't she? I've been telling myself that she did nothing on purpose because that's what people are like; they watch the Hunger Games for sick entertainment; only a few like Gibbs, Ghost and Owl are good and kind anymore. They understand the limits people have to take, and the ancient ways of valour, loyalty and justice are things of the past, and such fairy tales only exist in the story books my mother read to me when I was a naïve little girl. Nobody is good anymore, why should my Killer be any different than anybody else? Why should I forgive her for the hideous crimes she committed?

For days I've been arguing with myself about these questions and many others considering the girl on fire; noticing her impressive eleven during the private sessions with the Gamekeepers with little interest. It's just a number that I can't really judge by as I can't sponsor, and I'm too distracted to wonder about it or how she got it. I can't work out how I feel, and it's frustrating to not know where I stand. Now, with the interviews literally a day away, I keep myself busy with duties that my manager orders me. Trying and failing to keep my mind off my internal issues with the coal miner Tribute from 12.

The days I spend in the Training Centre have blended and blurred so I hardly care what I'm doing anymore, and when I'm sent to put some towels in some cupboard in the evening before the interviews, I do so without being as aware as I usually am. But something stops me; the sound of metal upon crockery and plates crashing together. I open the door discretely.

She barely notices me watch her for a few seconds, as she's too engrossed with an apple tart and cream that's dripping all over her face. The gluttony of the room makes me sick to see and the sickeningly sweet smell is worse, and I don't want to bare it another second. She's as ignorant as the Capitol scum, eating until sickness and further then they collapse on the ground reeking of morphling, more food and alcohol. I don't know why I was so worried before, and it's all so clear now, she's just teasing me with her overindulgence, mocking me with the way she licked the whipped cream off her mouth. I hope that mouth never speaks, or sings, or breathes again. She killed Fynnick. She killed mother. She killed father. She pulled the trigger that ended their lives and destroyed what was left of their fourteen year old daughter. I shut the door.

Was she scraping to survive in a dark place without a guide at such a young age? I don't think so.

I put the towels away, satisfied that I've finally realised the truth of my Killer and how she's a cruel, horrible girl. I'm glad that she'll die in the Games; I wonder who'll kill her. Who will satisfy my vengeance? Whoever it is, I wish them to make it as long and painful as they possibly can. I want her to suffer as I have over the six years I spent slaving after the Capitol. I want her to bleed and die screaming lost and alone like the other innocent me did, I want her to pay for the years I won't ever have.

When I pass her door a few minutes later, I'm not afraid, in fact; I hardly care what she does; she's returning to District 12 in a wooden box anyway no matter what she does. And I'll be able to see her as she slowly dies and slips into an eternity of sleep, never again to see the sunrise or set.

But then I hear the smashing of plates and wonder if she dropped one; clumsy and stupid too, my, my, she's not going to last very long in the Hunger Games is she? Up against strong Thresh of 11 and the roaring violence of Cato from 2; I decide to clean up the shards though, if her hand gets cut the day before her big interview and I was the only one who could help, the punishment would be unbearable I'm sure. Not to mention public to the entire Avox Shacks.

When I open the door, expecting a scared child crying over broken plate shards and her bloodied hands; I see her throwing plates at the wall deliberately. She's furious and burning with hatred to the unknown foe imbedded in the wall. She keeps grunting and throwing, smashing and crashing each plate and letting it shatter everywhere. I'm paralysed in shock, not knowing whether to stop her or walk away. What is my Killer doing?

Then she sees me and my shock, her face is suddenly wiped of fury and now laden with guilt and anger, and she turns from me. Another emotion is there, within her eyes that would be invisible except for someone who sees it all the time at the Shacks and in the mirror; shame. "Just leave it!" she yells, "Just leave it alone!"

I should get out of there. I should go and pretend this never happened, keep believing that Katniss is my enemy and killer. If I leave now, I can watch her on the TV without remorse or guilt and maybe a bit of happiness that my family's finally been avenged after so many years.

But suddenly, in that split second when she gives me an order for the first time, I realise something so stupid, so impossible, that I have to wonder if I wasn't imagining it; that I don't hate her.

I go into the bathroom and wet a cloth. I think I know why I'm doing this now; and it's not because of vengeance or mockery or to rub salt into old wounds, it's because I don't see someone of the Capitol. I see a girl who's been taken from her home and family and been thrust into a strange place. Waiting to kill or be killed in an unknown arena with people that have no mercy, for people who have no morals. And I want to help the girl that's had everything snatched away from her in a blink of an eye; someone who's been through what I have.

When I return she doesn't slap my hand away from her face as I gently wipe the grief and stress from her cheek. Her grey eyes have so much within them – strength, love, stress and so much pain. I look straight into them, and she looks into mine. She doesn't give me empty words, words that mean nothing to Avoxes, she just lets her eyes do the work for her. Another trait that we share in this hellish place.

I try to imagine what it would've been like for me, seeing strangers running at full pelt towards me, screaming for help. Then the hovercraft – coming from nowhere – and they keep screaming louder and louder. One gets impaled and the other keeps shouting, screaming for help and her lost sibling. Then locking eyes with the one still alive, that moment when she realises that I could've saved her, that I could've hidden her and took her away. The non-existent girl gets all my guilt and sympathy, and I certainly feel the horrible guilt even though it didn't even happen to me, even though I didn't need to watch.

I was living the nightmare.

I moved onto her bloodied hands, squeezing the cool water onto her wounds. I can tell that it feels good, because I can feel her tense skin relax. Her hard, tough hands that have felt so much, that probably know how to tie a few good knots or make a few fires by now. We stand there for what feels like a lifetime, a peaceful lifetime where perhaps, the girl on fire and I might've been friends. Where maybe I didn't need to become a slave and where she didn't need to die and murder others. In such a place, maybe I would be free, maybe I would be with my inseparable twin and my wonderful family. An alien feeling blossoms within my chest, a feeling that makes me at peace for the first time in a long, long age. Hope.

She dips her slightly head in shame while whispering, "I should've tried to save you."

I shake my head, being sure of what I think of this girl now that I've seen her shame and guilt and pain. For too long have I angered over this girl because of something far out of her control. If she did try to save me, she would be dead, or an Avox, or maybe worse, if possible. But regardless, why should I hate her for something she cannot reverse?

"No, it was wrong."

Yes, it was. But I would've done the same to protect my family and myself; to make sure that they didn't suffer because of my meaningless death. There is nothing that can be done of the past, and it wasn't the girl on fire who killed my family, she didn't wield the scalpel that cut my tongue. I don't care of the past anymore, if I keep living in it, I can never face the future; perhaps I don't have one, but how do I know if I don't even look?

I put my fingers to my lips and press her chest to prove my point.

For the next hour I'm not just an Avox, I'm an equal to Katniss Everdeen, I'm helping her clean her room. She doesn't speak, and that surprises me a bit, because I would've thought that she would've wanted to know my name. Although she probably has other things on her mind at the moment, what with the interviews a mere fourteen hours away. And with the Hunger Games in a mere few days.

Just wondering about the interviews makes me think of Cinna and the exquisite dress he prepared for Katniss, and my hair colour used on it. It seems so stupid now, arguing over a colour on a dress. I should really apologise for the way I acted around him; he was only trying to help me and the girl on fire, but after so long I don't think he'll like me for it. I consider asking Katniss about it, but I don't know how to get her attention without making a fool out of myself. It would also mean ruining the surprise that Cinna prepared for her, and I don't want to disappoint Cinna again or Katniss.

When the room is as spotless as when I cleaned it that first day she arrived, I turn the exquisite silk bed covers over, then let her slip within the covers. I tuck her in like mother did for me, acknowledging her eyes locked onto my face. And like my mother, I hum a tune that she learned where she used to live before she met my father. I can still remember the words of that wonderful, beautiful song…

_Deep in the medow, under the pillow,_

_A bed of grass, a soft green pillow,_

_Lay down your head, and close your sleepy eyes,_

_And when they open, the sun will rise._

_Here it is safe, here it's warm,_

_Here the daisies guard you from every harm,_

_Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true,_

_Here is the place where I love you._

The words I can still hear my mother sing each time I close my eyes before I sleep; the face of my sweet, wonderful mother who chants the words as I drift off into a dreamless sleep. When I finish my quiet humming for Katniss, I leave as quietly as I can, shutting the door in silence. Tears come to my eyes as I think of what I've lost.

I wish I could stay with her until the sun rose.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

I walk among the other Avoxes, who are all so ashamed and horrified at what they're about to see in hours, huddled around each other, fearing the screens. The TVs that will soon show young children being advertised like the many Capitol fashions. I'm not afraid, angry or suicidal; I'm not going to think of ways the girl on fire – Katniss – to die anymore. Because I don't want her to die; I want to protect her any way I can from the horrors she will fight. Tonight I am not entirely Avox, I am Lavinia, a young woman enjoying the Tributes' invented words and costumes, with no thoughts of the Games or death or the past.

I feel like a ten year old girl again, innocently thinking the Games is just a huge show with fake blood and limbs; like all parents tell their children at first with grim faces. I never imagined it was really happening to other kids until them first Games after I became an Avox. The gore still haunts me, every Hunger Game since then has terrified me.

But that is all in the past, today I don't care of what was and I look to the future. Or at least what's left of my future anyway.

The presenter of the interviews, Caesar Flickerman - who has always been a naturally talented man for the Games interviews - walked past me on my way into the Training Center this morning, which is now behind a large stage so many Avoxes are being forced to make. This year I see he's gone for powder blue, which makes him look like he's spent the last year in freezing cold waters. The thought of him living underwater makes me laugh for some weird reason, although it was better than last year, when it looked like Caesar was bleeding on stage while interviewing Tributes. This too makes me laugh when I imagine how ridiculous he looked last year and how Gibbs and I joked about it for months afterwards.

However, my amusement sounds sinister and freakish coming out of voiceless lips, and I decide not to laugh in front of kids or Katniss or even Capitol people in case they run away in terror. Again, I laugh, or try to at least, it sounds more gargling like boiling water than an amused laugh. I don't really know why I'm making stupid jokes to myself and it does seem crazy to me, an Avox, laughing, but it's just so funny. I let my giggles out, both amazed and proud that I'm making them; I can't remember when I last laughed, it feels good, it feels normal. And I don't care what people think of me; other Avoxes would think I've lost my mind, and normal Capitol people generally wouldn't know what to do. How can you stop a mute Avox from laughing? I'm sure it would be a first time for most Capitol citizens.

Just as suddenly as it came, my glee melts away and burns out; I'm left again with my silence.

In the few hours since I forgave Katniss, I feel as if a thick wall of fog has lifted from my shoulders. As if I was blind and my body knew how I truly felt and had been waiting all this time for me to realise. It feels strange and trying to describe how I felt is even stranger, but I truly feel peaceful and lighter. I feel better, freer, than I ever have these past six years. I've still been crippled by my Avox self though, and I cannot deny that I've been unhappy to keep working. But that tiny imperfection hasn't dampened my abnormally calm state.

In the afternoon, when I'm less busy, I pass the room of Cinna the ingenious tailor. And for half a second, I wonder if I should apologise. I pause for longer at the door of the room, almost hoping that he'll come out so I can get it over with and get on with the many jobs that need to be done before tonight. But I can't. I don't think it would be a good idea, he's angry, I know he is. I want to go inside though; I left without being dismissed from his room last time, and I've been taught manners from the Capitol. Apologising; it's better thought of than done. He can and might actually call the Peacekeepers this time, he has a right to; so is it really worth the risk? Do I want to be flogged because of what happened last time we spoke? Does he realise that I don't hate Katniss anymore and consider her… an ally? I hope so; because it could be the whipping post or worse for me if I'm wrong.

With a shaking hand, I knock on the door. He can't call the Peacekeepers if I can run in the opposite direction towards the manager, can he?

Cinna opens the door; again he's kept a natural look that does make him more attractive than any other Capitol citizen. He smiles; does he already know that I'm reformed? No he can't possibly know that already.

"Come in," he invites me in, he doesn't order me, he never orders me to do anything. I walk into the room, and I see that he's cleaned up all his designs from the floor and the table. I wonder if he did it himself or he used a few Avoxes to help him, but then decide I don't really care. Cinna isn't like that I think.

Although there are no more papers with rough designs on them or pencils littering the apartment; it isn't completely empty. In the middle of the apartment, there sits a small, thin mannequin that's the same sort of size as Katniss. And upon its shoulders, there's a radiant dress that sends waves of glitter like stars each time Cinna makes an adjustment with his expert hands. No, not stars, fire; it looks exactly like raging fire cascading up her body, flames licking her from bottom to top. He sees me staring in wonder, and grins with his perfectly shiny, pearly white teeth.

"Its' radiance knows no bounds does it?" Cinna begins poetically, "I know how this sounds, but I truly believe that this will be the finest gown in the whole Games. Not since the very beginning, but Katniss should definitely be… unforgettable."

Unforgettable. Another word for attractive to potential sponsors; another word for keeping Katniss Everdeen from being killed in the first week.

"I wondered if you would come back here. After what I said; and I won't deny it just because of you – I want to keep Katniss alive. Most of the stylists here don't care about what happens to their Tributes in the Games. They just want publicity and to get noticed by big celebrities that they can design for superstar adults, rather than snotty kids. Well I don't want another forgotten Tribute murdered. She's a good kid, a survivor and they're hard to come by these days. You know that, though don't you, Lavinia? More than most, probably, I don't care what Katniss did to you or your past, I'm fighting for her and Peeta to have a future. So should you."

His words make me ashamed of my constant anger and hatred towards the girl on fire. Because I do know how right he is now, and how wrong I was. I didn't realise then how the girl on fire was quite literally a girl, a child still. I remember how just a day ago I didn't know who Katniss was, I was just assuming every action she did was to humiliate me, and I was considering watching her get murdered on the Games, thanking her would-be killer. Thanking her killer? That would've made me as much of a murderer as he or she, like I was volunteering for the Games. I shiver at the thought of volunteering to kill people, with no remorse for the life they lost.

I look up at Cinna, feeling my throat tighten with how horrible I feel; how could I even think those things? How could I imagine her terrible death and _want_ her to suffer? An icy chill comes over me; I hug my chest to try to keep a little warm, turn from him and sit onto the couch. That's not me. That's not me.

Cinna notices – the way he always reads me like an open book, it's getting a bit annoying at how he can do it so easily – he sits beside me and offers a small object in his hand; it's a red that resembles the darkest of sunset and yet also the irreplaceable bright beauty of a flawless ruby. The shard of precious stone resembles those used on the dress and is undoubtedly unique in colour. But not just any colour; my colour, my red hair. "From one designer to another, I wouldn't mind an audience. Usually I wouldn't let anyone even look at my work, I wouldn't let anybody know my secrets, but you're not anybody, Lavinia that's for sure." I blush from his kind words and nod.

Without another word, he stands and continues his work creating the unforgettable dress. Taking the thin red shard, he pierces it with a sharp threaded needle carefully and begins to sew it onto the gown, within minutes he's secured the jewel where he wants it and steps away. The jewel blends in with its brothers and sisters, reflecting the electric light and turning it into a cascading fire. Admiring his work, Cinna has the severe seriousness and concentration of a master; he doesn't look at his masterpiece and vainly appreciates his work, he sees what he needs to do to make it better.

After a while of sitting and watching him work, I begin to remember that song that my mother taught me and I find myself whistling the tune again.

_Deep in the meadow, under the pillow,_

_A bed of grass, a soft green pillow,_

_Lay down your head, and close your sleepy eyes,_

_And when they open, the sun will rise._

After the first verse I remember the days when we all used to sit together, all of us. When we used to be normal; how Fynnick and I used to play in the grassy garden behind our home. The trouble we used to get up to in our own world, our mad imaginations – it almost made our parents think we were crazy when we told them of the shenanigans that we got into. Sometimes I wondered if we were two crazy siblings, but me and Fynnick loved it, we loved being young and free.

_Here it is safe, here it's warm,_

_Here the daisies guard you from every harm,_

_Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true,_

_Here is the place where I love you._

Then other, different memories descend upon me. I couldn't keep Fynnick safe or warm during them horrible days we both spent running. Always running and hiding. No stupid daisies could protect him, not even his disgusting twin sister could guard him from the dangers that followed us. My brother, my wonderful twin brother Fynnick died in a war he kept raving about when we were alone together in the woods. How it was unjust and unfair how people from the Districts were treated, how it still goes on today. How he would change that when he inherited father's job and became the mayor of District 2. It was unjust, unfair and cruel for Fynnick to be taken from me. And I don't even know why he was killed, why we even left the comforts of the Capitol. My parents told me to run until we reached Twelve; we were so close, we thought that we could run to the finish so that we could go home. So that we could see mother and father again, live in Twelve in secret. I was so careless, so stupid! I got Fynnick killed and became an Avox.

I'm crying silently into my hands as soon as Fynnick and mother and father come into my head, they used to be so alive, so brilliant, so loving. Now they're gone. They've been gone for so many years. The tears fall without being stopped down my cheeks and fall onto each of my palms. Two small puddles gather within them and I barely move until Cinna turns and sees me. I want Fynnick back.

Cinna could ask why I'm weeping, he could console me with an arm around my shoulders added with those kind words he knows so well. But it would all be futile. I'm broken and he knows that I am, but what can he do to make me feel better? The only thing he could do that would make everything good again is if he gave me my living twin brother Fynnick right now. And unfortunately I'm old enough to know that's impossible.

The master stylist doesn't ignore me and go back to his work, he doesn't order me to go before I make a fool out of myself like other Capitol people would. Cinna sits beside me, and puts an arm around my shoulders; it feels nice. Before I realise what I'm doing, I turn and start weeping into him, like I used to with mother or father. For a moment, he's taken by surprise, and I wonder if he will push me away and continue with his work. Then he hugs me back. Cinna musk smells good, woody, strong and sweet; it makes me want to hug him forever. He smells so familiar, like a home I used to know. I feel warm and safe.

I haven't stopped crying, I continue for a few more minutes where we both just sit together. When my tears are drying Cinna pushes away slightly, not gruffly, but a kind warning that he wants to stop. He looks at me with such affection that I can barely breathe; nobody has been so kind to me outside the Shacks since my family and friends were around. Because of what he did, and what he still does, to help me I decide to give him something that I usually keep to myself; the only thing that I can smuggle in and out of the Capitol, the only thing that they cannot find or take from me.

My collar is high enough so I can hide it easily, and the rest of my dress is patched up enough to put it elsewhere when Peacekeepers try to search me. But only to Cinna and Gibbs do I show my mother's necklace.

The chain is long, thick and strong – it travels down my collar bone and finishes beyond any neckline that Avoxes can wear - and looks like a thick golden rope hanging off my neck. The pendant is a small bird within a ring of gold catching an arrow in mid-flight and is always in the centre of the chain. It's my mother's favourite bird, the mockingjay; she used to call it the bird of freedom. My father got it for her when they got married, and she gave it to me the night before we all ran from our home in the Capitol.

Cinna inclines with his head as if to ask if he can pick it up. I nod that he can, and he takes the mockinjay it in both of his hands and looks at my mother's necklace from each angle he looks in wonder and keeps shaking his head as if he cannot believe it's there. This confuses me, for although it is a unique, simple and yet radiant necklace, it doesn't deserve that kind of attention. Once he finishes examining it, he looks right into my eyes and tells me: "this is beautiful. Who gave it to you?"

I find a piece of paper and a pen and scrawl on it: My mother.

"Your mother?" Cinna looks astonished and keeps staring at me seriously, as if accusing me of lying. "Are you sure? Absolutely sure?"

I nod – did he - he knew my mother?

"Lavinia." He begins, but then shakes his head. "I'm sorry, you need to go. Lavinia you have to go now."

Orders? He's giving me orders? He must have good reason to after trying so hard all this time, but what does he know? I want answers, but I don't want to anger him, I know there will be other days to ask him about this when he has more time. When he doesn't have as much work then I can confront him. But not now; I bow slightly towards him, unable to remove the confusion that's etched onto my face and I exit the apartment. After I leave I wonder if I just imagined the glistening of tears in his hazel brown eyes.

It's only dusk when I'm on the return journey on Bus 1, and only one question throbs in my head on the way back to the Shacks. The same question I've tried to answer for the past six years of my enslavement: why did we leave the Capitol that night?


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

I'm nervous for her. Today's the day that she'll die; by the blade of a Tribute or she'll be stained by the horrors of the arena. Katniss Everdeen will be changed forever in a way that cannot be mended; like me, a hollow shell, of guilt and pain. I don't know if I'll be able to face even the highlights. I would prefer not to know if the girl on fire will be extinguished. But I also have to find out if she made it, if she has a chance.

The interviews were, I admit, unbelievable.

Katniss' innocence and witty reactions, added with the exquisite beauty of her dress (which surpassed anybody's expectations), Peeta's confession, and that blush; Cinna kept his word. He told me that he doesn't want another forgotten Tribute to die. There's no doubt that Katniss will ever be forgotten. She will always be remembered.

Due to the Games beginning today, I've been reassigned from the Training Centre; to a place only known as the Gamekeeper's Den. Few have gone there, or even heard of the place, as only the most attractive Avoxes are ordered there, so I know nothing of what I might face today. My vivid imagination has gone wild with what might happen. I think the Den must be something to do with the arena, so maybe it's some kind of monitoring system to keep track of all the Tributes. Maybe it's where the cameras are remotely controlled, or the traps, or everything to do with the arena and the Games.

I take a bus through the city into the underground, through the incredibly complicated tunnel system that's too dark for anyone to see, let alone memorise. Yet the sewer Avoxes are forced to live here and work here, they are condemned to die in this oversized grave, trapped in the eternal blackness. I see them avoid the vehicle; their pale faces look up towards me, their dead eyes digging into me, their eyes squinting in the unnatural light.

When the mere a hundred of us arrive, I see that the Den is concealed far beneath the sewers and is directly in the middle of a fountain in a gorgeous plaza in the centre of the city. I cannot help but admire the architecture of the structure; as it's literally the size of the President's Mansion, but obviously nowhere near as magnificent.

A gigantic man orders us where we must stand and where we must and mustn't go, and he then shoves a tray full of drinks into my arms. I stand in a circular, domed roofed room, with glass peeking to the outside world and allowing sunlight to heat the Gamekeeper's Den gently. The decorations are luxurious, the carefully embroidered rugs, carpets and curved panelled walls are all beautiful beyond any comparison I can think of. Comfortable armchairs are dotted around the hall with little coffee tables for the drinks they might buy. A crystal elevator zips up and down occasionally to collect and deliver Sponsors to the grand hall. However, at the far end is a screen that fills the wall with the Hunger Games' logo spinning constantly. I can see another thirty or so Avoxes standing beside me and around the circumference of the hall, not daring to acknowledge where they are and what will indefinitely happen in this place.

First those who control the arena come into the Den, at first I think they're Avoxes because of the way their backs are hunched over. At second glance I realise they're specialised Peacekeepers due to the perfectly cleaned Peacekeeper suit, it was hard to recognise them without their helmet. They must know their way through the Den because they enter a door and they do so with haste, eager to get the blood flowing. Minutes after the Peacekeepers are gone and no more arrive, the Capitols begin to arrive in the Gamekeeper's Den.

The people who are willing to sponsor Tributes are usually the most enthusiastic, the people whose lives are based on the succession of who they sponsor, they casually take drinks and nibbles as they discuss last night's interviews. It's all a huge gamble; if their Tribute wins; they get double or even triple what they spent in the arena plus an award from the Capitol that is shared among others who sponsored the same Tribute. If not, they don't get any money back. It's been well known within the Capitol that increasing debts with the Capitol have led to citizens to kill and be killed over the Hunger Games. A cruel irony that rarely happens to any professional Sponsors, and only especially to first timer fools who continuously sponsor until they have no more money to bet. .

An hour passes, and before long, a surprisingly limited one hundred and fifty Sponsors arrive and stand awaiting the Head Gamekeeper Seneca Crane.

Crane has decided to keep his human form and face, despite the latest fashion, but he has a tattoo of a beard on his chin, which is unusual even within the Captiol's fashions. Although the intense paleness of his skin makes his dark eyes even more cruel and dangerous, his hair also looking like the darkest bark of a tree. But behind that mask of makeup, I can see something far deeper that I don't recognise… and it bothers me. Because I'm sure it's something very, very bad that Katniss and all the other Tributes should avoid if she wants to survive the first week.

He raises his hands to signal quiet among the surprisingly serious Capitol gamblers. The Games are their life, and they're serious about keeping their fragile reputation untarnished and completely flawless. Silence comes almost immediately. "The 74th Games will begin, friends, in a few minutes. And I would like to inform you of where mentors and their Districts as to avoid confusion when the gong sounds. District 1, Cashmere and Gloss; mentors of Glimmer and Marvel, District 2..."

It went on until a particular name caught my attention. "District 4, Finnick and-"

Finnick.

I look to where Crane gestures and I feel something ache towards the man because of the name he is associated with. He's tall, fit and athletic with golden skin. When I look close enough, his sea green eyes have seen so much pain and anguish, but know also love and Finnick craves for it like a mountain of food just out of reach of a starving man. He doesn't notice my staring luckily, and he merely gazes at the crowd with a twinkle in his incredibly deep emerald eyes. I can understand why my mother named my brother after such a perfect specimen of a man.

_I sat opposite Fynnick, his dark red hair bouncing as he laughed at me, he got it right again! How did he get that Victor right? Finnick Odiar won a Game? I've never heard of him._

"_You cheated!" I snapped sharply at him, and then I knocked the game board over with my hand. Then I ran to my room and laid there. I hated how he knew everything and I knew nothing; why did I become the dumb twin? I gritted my teeth in anger, but when that burned away in a minute, I was left with regret. I shouldn't have done that to Fynnick._

_Mother came into the room with disappointment on her face; I looked once then turned away. "You shouldn't be mean to Fynnick, Lavinia. It's wrong to be mean, always."_

"_I know!" I told her too loudly. Furious again, I punch my pillow and feel my eyes go wet. "Who's Finnick Odair?"_

_She paused for a moment, thinking about the past; reminiscing about something that happened to her. Then smiled as she whispered, "He's… someone from another world. An angel in seaweed."_

I can understand how angelic Finnick looks, but the way she said that to me makes me certain that she knew this mentor especially. But how, why and will he even recognise me?

I take until the end of Crane's introductions just looking at him, trying to locate any sort of time that I might have met him. I might've seen the rerun of his Games once, or even his occasional appearance on chat shows, why would he be the benefactor for my brother's name? Just because of glimpses on TV of him? Something is different, whether by smell or just his flesh present, I feel suspicious at him.

"ETA two minutes, sir." A technician says to Crane just after his speech ends. The man then retreats back to the Control Room where he emerged.

"Very good; let's get to it, people." The confidence brimming from the Head Gamekeeper, he left the Den and proceeded to the Control Room; the exquisite lights dim and make the room dark. The Games lights up with the faces of the commentators of the Games, who both begin discussing what Tributes are favourites and – of course – the tragic fate of the charismatic Peeta and Katniss.

After about a minute, the screen shows the Tributes ready to run or fight for their lives on small pods. Most look calm and calculated in their green shirts, trousers and brown leather boots, like Katniss or the Careers; others look terrified like the Tributes from 4, 5 and 6. Katniss is who I look at and she is staring at the very mouth of the Cornucopia, she has greed in her eyes I've seen so many times, the greed for wanting something that's impossible to have. Oh no, she's going to actually try to get in there, to run to the Cornucopia mouth, to get a weapon or food or something that she wants with a ferocity that I never expected to see on her face. I don't want her to try it, she's too small, too vulnerable, there are so many Tributes between her and getting out alive, it won't happen, she's going to run! Don't Katniss, Don't-

With a boom of Claudius Templesmith's voice, the constant thud of my heart in my ears, my eyes stinging, my lungs tightening and burning, the resounding gong in the air of the forest in the arena,

The 74th Hunger Games began.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Hesitation; she had her chance but she hesitated for a half a second. Because of it she had no choice but to run, at full speed, to the first thing she could get her hands on; a metre square sheet of plastic that shimmered in the bright morning sun. Katniss then grabs a backpack, as does another boy, and they grapple for barely any time and then she's showered with a sticky, bloody spray that she staggers back, repulsed by it. She sees the girl aim her knife, goes pale at the sight of it, eyes widening, like a small rabbit against a raging wolf; then runs faster than I've ever seen; the girl throws her dagger, aiming at Katniss' head. It flies through the air, then _thuwmp _straight into the backpack. The knife thrower doesn't follow the girl on fire. I allow myself to exhale. She's made it - she has a chance.

Others aren't as lucky.

A few kids have been slaughtered already, their guts and flesh covering the dusty ground, Careers are spread out, guarding the Cornucopia as well as taking from it. A girl runs for it foolishly, dodges one Tribute by luck, then gets hacked in the stomach by another; Cato. Tributes that haven't already disappeared among the foliage lay bleeding with severe wounds that nobody can survive from. The deadly Careers slaughtering all in their path with every weapon that I know, plus others that I cannot fathom the names of: maces bludgeon skulls, swords slice skin and flesh, and arrows fly aimlessly into the air. Within two minutes, the terrified screams have reduced to sickening sounds of skin being pierced and the sigh of Tributes dying.

Then the Careers gather to discuss what to do.

Three of the strongest and richest Districts tend to become Careers to stay alive; 1, 2 and 4. But this year, it seems that one of the strongest has already died. I'm relieved as well as surprised, for now there's less chance of Katniss being killed by a Career.

The self-proclaimed leader of the five Careers is Cato from the quarrying District 2: from what I've seen he's a nasty Tribute with a passion for murder and butchering with a wicked long-sword. His blonde hair and brown eyes, handsome face and fit body make him also deceptive to the eye. He calls to the Careers, already with an air of superiority among them. "The best option is to keep together as a pack, because as Tristan got himself killed, we can't split up as planned. We'll be overwhelmed by the huge 11 guy if he finds just three of us-"

One of the boys appears out of the foliage kicking and punching another Tribute violently. I can't see the Tribute's face, but the Tribute had the idiocy of being so slow to escape that a Career caught up and is currently beating him to a pulp. The Careers gather around the fight, watching the show and probably wondering how long the Tribute will last. The sounds of the boy grunting, and the pain that the Tribute groans out makes me flinch more than once, and I cannot believe how the Careers stare at the show. A miniature Games within Games. I hope that his suffering ends soon.

After a minute passes Cato intercepts the boy and holds him back. "Stop it, Marvel." He hisses.

"I can take him. He's nearly gone, Cato."

"How do you expect to get her, idiot?" I assume that 'her' is Katniss. That eleven in training must've unnerved the Careers, and I assume that the boy is Peeta, which would make sense as he's one of the few blonde haired boys in the arena. Using Peeta as bait for Katniss is low – but sly. The boy called Marvel relaxes and lets Cato through to the beaten up body.

He offers a hand to Peeta, who accepts while wiping blood off the corner of his lip. "What are you good with?"

Peeta shrugs, and then cringes from the pain. "I don't know, a hammer or a club, I guess."

Cato doesn't smile. He throws a roll of bandage to him: "Clean yourself up, then get something. We leave in five."

The group nods to their leader, and although some aren't pleased about hunting as a larger, riskier pack, they prepare themselves to move out. Most retrieve canteens full of water in the Cornucopia mouth to carry with a little food for the day and night of hunting. Others get torches and tents to share with District partners. Some just exchange foul looks with Peeta as they walk to follow their leader, including the knife throwing girl Clove. I suppose that she doesn't trust or like Peeta, I don't blame her, very strange things happen when love is involved. As Peeta collects his bounty from the Cornucopia, ignoring her venomous stares without emotion, he takes one fleeting look at the trees. The camera zooms in on a Tribute, and I gasp as I realise that there was a slower one. That Peeta went back to save him – why? They both lock eyes for a moment. The boy mouths a 'thank you' as tears come to his eyes; Peeta does nor says nothing and turns his back, then catches up with the others.

The morning stretches on, with the Tributes all walking aimlessly towards any source of water or food; except for the Careers who all spread out at Cato's command to search for any trails leading to Tributes. Even though I am scared of what might be around every corner for Katniss; whether traps Crane has set or hunters waiting to pounce, I try to subdue my worries. She can – and must – look after herself in the arena. Despite all the blood and horror occurring constantly in this deadly arena, I can't deny that the forest itself is very serene and beautiful, and even though I hate that place of nightmares, I wish that I could live there with my friends. I've never been to a forest; I've never seen wild animals prance freely without anybody to dictate them. It looks so peaceful despite the death and horror it has, and will soon, house.

As the hours fade away, I begin to worry of the lack of water, and if Katniss will ever find any in that place. It has happened before in the Games, if an unpopular few years, it has occurred. I don't want the girl to die now, not of something as pathetic as dehydration or starvation; she doesn't deserve to get out of the competition like that – like she's nothing.

By afternoon, nobody has found water, and I watch as Katniss eventually stops to check her supplies. Within the bright orange backpack, she finds a thin black sleeping bag that will keep her warm in the cold nights, a packet of crackers and beef, a small bottle of iodine that will be useful in purifying water, black sunglasses, a coil of wire and a large plastic bottle. Like everything else in the dense forest, bone dry.

When she appears on the largest screen in the Gamekeeper's Den, I can only see her walking and chewing on what appears to be a thin layer of tree bark. I smile – Katniss is already realising how her endurance will be tested and is keeping her mouth busy to keep it off the burden of food or water, unlike most of the other Tributes who are trying to find shelter for the night. Smart, she'll need that if she wants to stay alive.

I watch her as the path she walks dips into a valley – I wonder if this could be her downfall, as the Careers could be on her back at any second, but when I think of the head start that she has, my worries subside. As I continue to watch her and her situation, I suddenly realise that this would be perfect for her to find water, as the precious liquid always runs downhill. She's basically walking right into a bowl. Maybe she already figured this out and is going down into this valley on purpose so she can find water.

But then she flashes off and it cuts to the Careers gathering around Clove as she rallies to her allies. She's found something, and it can't be good from the triumph on her face.

"These can't have been made more than a few hours ago." She explains, vaguely tracing the outline. "The feet are small, too, must be one of the girls."

"Whoever she is she can't have gone too far. If we can find her in an hour, we can sleep until night and attack the others unawares." Cato replies, pointing in the direction where the feet left the ground. "I'd say she was heading south-west. Clove?"

"I make it south, but either way we need to head that way."

Their slight disagreement isn't as bothering to Cato as I expected, on the contrary, he smiles at it and heads in a near south direction.

Peeta is silent and serious, probably considering the same thing I am; have those footprints been made by Katniss? I don't know what this boy feels, whether the boy does love her like he claimed during the interviews or if it's all a rouse; but he does care about her, I can see that he does. But if that is love or not, I can't be sure; even if he has joined the Career pack for some bloodlust that would rare in a poor District like Twelve, I doubt that feeling has gone.

Darkness descends upon the arena slowly, the boredom beginning to show with the Sponsors. The Head Gamekeeper is lucky that he isn't here – but when he does sometimes look in the Den everyone stares at him to make something happen. Keep everything as fiery as he promised. Katniss must be careful to not aggravate this man; why I have this intense feeling of distrust or what he will do I cannot be sure of, but unknown, terrible feelings have been stabbing me every time I look upon Crane.

As the night creatures appear, the Tributes follow the same pattern of disappearing to rest. They all collect the supplies they retrieved from the Cornucopia (for each of them got something from the Bloodbath, although some objects are truly useless) and hide themselves. Some hide in caves they found, trying to keep warm underground, others stupidly stay out in the open, but only a select few – Katniss, the District 11 girl, whom I think is named Rue and the sly red-haired fox-face – climb a tree to sleep in.

After so long standing, listening and staring; my legs, eyes and ears strain. I'm on the verge of collapse when I am sent to the Shacks late; very late. The moon stretching far into the west and the stars beginning to shine at their best; despite how calm the night rarely is all I can think about is Katniss. I don't want her to perish in that terrible place; she's so young.

As I collapse on my bunk, I start reciting the song mother used to sing. Not for me, or Cinna, or even Fynnick, tonight I hum for Katniss. My mother sung about a world with pretty daisies and meadows, grass and trees, where colours are vibrant and where skies are full of beautiful mockingjays. My final thought before I drift into sleep is of the girl on fire. Katniss, who I hope will be alive a bit longer; so we can both go to that place my mother sung to me so long ago. Then I fall into the embrace of a dreamless sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

I arrive at the Gamekeeper's den just as dawn strikes the horizon. Already Sponsors are awake and watching the early morning of the Games; these veterans stare without emotion and whether sitting or standing they all mirror each other. Like yesterday, I'm given a tray of drinks that I must offer to all the Sponsors every so often, this time the drink I'm given is bright pink and smells of fresh fruits.

My gaze switches to the screen, and what I see is annoying enough to sigh for. Katniss, strapped in her tree by her belt, is resting next to the most stupid girl in the Games. What is the girl thinking? Lighting a fire that announces to anyone in the area where she is although I wouldn't be surprised if she was killed now – and honestly, I think she deserves to be killed at how idiotic she is the girl knows the precautions by now after at least five or six Games that she's seen. Alth0ugh dawn is breaking, and there is a chance that the stupid girl might get away with this risk, the Careers might be far away on the other side of the arena.

The shot changes to Peeta pointing with his uninjured, good arm at the rising smoke. As the angle changes, I'm terrified at the distance they're at. Mere yards from Katniss' hiding place! I don't see the female Tributes and I can only assume that they're cleaning up after their camp or they're somewhere else searching as the three boys are. They soon begin running, and in seconds, they're upon the stupid girl.

They make a bit too much sound, for she wakes in a heartbeat and screams at the Careers in terror. She begins pleading, crying to the merciless Careers 'please' and 'don't'. I feel a little sympathetic for her – she had no idea what to do, after all. She picks up a stick of smouldering wood and throws it at Marvel, who knocks it away gracelessly. When he checks, he sees a slight burn on his left forearm. In anger, he throws a spear straight into the stupid girl's stomach; after shock is etched onto her face, she staggers, and then she collapses onto her side.

They check her supplies: apart from the tinder she used to get the fire going, the girl hasn't got much else, not even a weapon. She had no chance. Cato stuffs the tinder with the rest he's collected and then they all walk towards the very bush Katniss is hiding in. Metres away, if they took a few more steps, she'd be dead.

"Shouldn't we have heard a cannon by now?" Marvel asks.

"I'd say yes. Nothing to prevent them from going in immediately." Cato replies.

"Unless she isn't dead."

"She's dead, I stuck her myself."

"Then where's the cannon?"

"Someone should go back. Make sure then job's done."

"Yeah, we don't want to have to track her down twice." Cato sighs, exasperated from the hours they've spent hunting.

"I said she's dead!" Marvel states loudly.

"We can't just rely on your shoddy aiming."

"You-"

"We're wasting time! I'll go finish her off and let's move on!" Peeta shouts above the others.

Now Katniss knows that her lover is a ruthless murderer; I wonder what their District thinks of the bursting-full-of-love-traitorous Peeta Mellark? The boy goes off and a camera tracks after him and, he kneels down and pushes his fingers against her neck. The foolish girl turns her head slightly to look upon Peeta.

"No…" she says weakly.

Peeta bends down and slits her throat – without looking at her face again. Then he walks back to his allies.

"Was she dead?"

"No, but she is now." then a cannon fires in the distance, "ready to move on?"

They run east of the bloody scene, completely missing Katniss' hiding place in the bushes. Although some Sponsors are on the verge of laughing at the thought of a Career being so stupid, I don't care. I don't care for any of them. Katniss is who I want to win.

She reveals herself to the camera, and, as if knowing exactly where it was, cocks her head and grins mischievously.

I'm absorbed by the Games for hours of my day in what seems like a few minutes the bright morning has become early evening. Katniss found a small pool, drank a lot of it after purifying, and now is napping in a tree. Holding her bottle tightly and not caring about the Careers.

Then I notice the Sponsors.

They aren't watching the Games.

They are eating, chatting and drinking, but not watching the screen. I don't understand why, Katniss nearly died of dehydration, the Careers nearly caught her and killed her, these Games are dramatic and deep. Then I realise – there hasn't been a death in days, these people are too shallow to accept anything else. I hear them all whispering about how these Games are on the verge of boredom.

I'm not really concerned about this, most Games get a bit slow at the beginning but usually get bloodier as the weeks pass. But I'm sure Crane is panicking, this is his first Games after all. This begins to scare me.

As I wonder of this - wall of fire rises from the ground about a mile across, curving around the arena.

The hungry flames start slow and purposeful. But then faster, the tips licking the brush and leaves from the trees; early, tired animals sense the danger and leap from their hiding places, bounding off to some safety. Why isn't Katniss awake? I hope that she senses something soon, because the smoke will suffocate before she gets the chance to even think of running.

The camera changes to the Careers, they heard the animals and felt them bounding over their camp. At once they're running, far and fast in any direction. It's only a minute later when Katniss is also awake, unbuckled from her tree and sprinting off, following the beasts who gallop away from the towering inferno. I'm relieved, but not for long.

Crane forces Katniss and the Careers closer and closer together. Of course, conflict is what he wants, interest from the Sponsors. They perk up from their feasting and watch the Games again with rekindled interest.

But then the wall of fire vanishes from stalking Katniss as quickly as it came; all that remains is the smouldering of bushes and twigs. Then Crane fires something small at Katniss – I consider that this is some sort of joke until the bombs exploding in an infernal pillar of deadly flame. I can barely watch all I can do is listen to my heartbeat thudding against my chest.

More shots are fired, and then I hear her shrieking, when I see what… what happened… I nearly vomit at the sight of the charred flesh. Bits of her skin hang off her leg and… I look away. I… I can't-

_The factories were black, grey and brown with dirt. We shouldn't have come here, I know, but we saw Peacekeepers in District 1. They were checking the trains for us, we know they were. Staying there would've been suicide… Fynnick said so and we had to go somewhere inconspicuous. District 3 was close and the best place to go but the heat! The heat hurts my hands like a hot bowl of stew on my fingers. Ahh, I remember the smell of stew and potatoes it makes my mouth water… We had to come here; it was close to the coast. That was the plan – to stick to the coast. We would go to District 11 next, get help from Finnick Odair or someone, and maybe get a boat to sail to 12 like Father said. Because he wouldn't let us die in the wilds, he would keep us safe. He wouldn't let us die alone._

_No – not alone._

Like a tidal wave, the memories overwhelmed me like a flood. For a long time, nothing else existed, just the past. My past. All at once, the world disappeared, and I saw everything again as if I watched my life from behind a screen.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

"It all began when we were young," mother used to tell us. Our parent's love story had become a bedtime tale, one that they would tell us every other night. Fynnick and I loved to hear it even though we knew it off by heart.

They met during a few Reapings when they were young children. My Father was one of the richest, son of the mayor of District 2. He had no brothers or sisters and considered himself content to be alone in his class despite how popular he could easily be. He didn't want to be popular and was far too shy to try. My Mother had only a drunken father who would beat her at any excuse he had. She was unhappy during childhood, but not poor enough to be starving like other Districts. She never speaks of him, and I only know of his existence because of Father telling Fynnick and I. She is strongest person I have ever met, she could lift fairly heavy weights and she could withstand any bitter words spat at her.

They spent time with each other when my Mother spoke to my Father when he was sitting alone after the Hunger Games took one of her friends. She never mentioned who. It took only a few years until they fell in love. Then, after some years (and failed attempts to distract him from my Mother), my Grandfather allowed my Father to court my Mother thoroughly. Due to her remarkable beauty and incredible strength of will and mind, he suspected that she would manipulate my Father who he considered weak. I still remember her delicate porcelain skin, dark radiant red hair, perfect pink lips, and bright green eyes. My Mother…

They did marry, and Grandfather died pleased with the choice of wife Father had chosen, saying that he couldn't have chosen a better girl in all of Panem. Father became mayor and got Fynnick and me two years later.

Such was the ending of the story.

But life continued a lot differently.

When we were young, only seven or eight at most, they were called away to the Capitol. I'm not sure why, all Father told us was that the President was very impressed with his work in District 2 and he wanted to speak to him. During their visit, Mother told us that she was admired often by the President; and Father was pushed away. Although it wasn't clear at the time, it soon became obvious that the impossible had happened.

The most heartless man in existence, President Coriolanus Snow, had fallen in love with my mother.

Being so young, Fynnick and I didn't really care about what happened at a party that we couldn't go to. They were boring for us and lasted a week with adults discussing the Games and politics of the Districts. But once Mother and Father returned, they began to argue excessively about what happened. I remember hearing their angered voices scratch my ears like an impatient cat; Fynnick also tried to ignore them, but we couldn't.

As the months passed, Mother was called away more and more to the Capitol. Father couldn't bear it and the arguments became less intense, melancholy became their norm. Eventually, only one conversation remained – I remember it clearly as I was only up the stairs with Fynnick. Holding tightly onto his hand as we listened.

It began after a few minutes of silence.

"He's asked me to visit him again." Mother said.

"How long?"

Mother was silent for a moment, I assumed that she shrugged. "A few weeks, maybe more."

"You don't have to go." Father insisted.

"You know that isn't true, Argon."

"I don't care. He'll kill you, eventually, we both know that."

Mother sighed. "If that's what it takes."

"No. Don't you dare."

"What else can I do?"

"Walk away. Tell him that you're faithful to me, your husband and me alone, now and always; the truth you promised me when we got married."

"He would just kill you all to make me eligible. He still might if we aren't careful; I refuse to let you die because of his lust."

Another long, awkward pause. "I love you, Freja." Father told her. "I can't let you do this."

"I love _you_, Argon. But you'll die if I don't try."

"What about Fynnick and Lavinia? How would they cope if I had to tell them you were murdered by the President?"

"He may love me too much to kill me."

"And what about your family," Father insisted, his voice almost failing. "He used to have a wife, a daughter, a beautiful family that was as happy as ours. We both know what he did with those he loved."

The second pause lasted so long; ten year old Fynnick and I wondered if they had left the room like ghosts. We were so scared.

Mother broke it. "I have to do this. For all of us."

"Please, Freja. We can politely refuse him; use every excuse we must, bribe peacekeepers-"

"Argon."

My Father didn't finish, and let his offer hang in the air for a few moments of silence. When Mother took no heed of his words, he sighed. "I don't want you to do this."

"I do."

"You could die."

"I could free our country from him; that is more important."

Father's voice became angered. "Nothing's more important than our family."

"Which is why I want them to be free."

"Aren't you happy with what we have?" He demanded

"Of course I am. But what about everyone else, starving in Districts nobody can see?"

He had nothing more to say. "Do as you wish, as usual. But this cannot and will not end well."

Over the next four years, Mother was visiting the President in the Capitol. She would leave for two or three weeks on end, and would return showered with gifts. I was jealous of the things she got, and I didn't understand why she barely reacted to them. Why she never wore the clothes, or the jewellery.

Father was worse. He was forced to stay away from the Capitol because of specific 'jobs' that the President set him. He never accepted the idea she had to leave to see the President on business. How could he? I can't imagine what he had to go through each day. Fynnick and I didn't see either of them much. The little time we had together we cherished and we appreciated the fact that we were still alive and the President hadn't done anything else to hurt us.

During the summer of the fifth year of this, Fynnick and I were taken to the cellar and they told us all they could about the mysterious disappearances. Mother and Father spoke softly and kindly: like they already knew what was going to happen.

We were fourteen when they told us the darker side of what we were living through; the poverty of the rest of the districts, the murders committed by our President, how they were forced to do what they didn't want to do every day, why they were always away from home and the silenced cries at night.

But what I didn't expect to hear out of their lips that were they worked for the freedom of all Districts, that they were rebels, working for the only District that was free and destroyed - Thirteen.

It was a lot to take in for one night.

But that was only the beginning.

The President had discovered what Mother was trying to do. I don't know why or how he found out but once he did, he made his intentions perfectly clear. We had to get out, my parents told us. We had to escape his clutches.

So we ran through the dark streets that were ones that I knew well. Yet they were much more vicious and hostile through my innocent eyes. The roads were stalking us, watching as we slipped through the streets. I never felt so scared in my life; I never would've reached the station without Mother holding my hand.

The shadows followed us.

We didn't stand a chance.

"Listen, Fynnick, Lavinia – we can't go with you."

"What? No there's room, there's loads of space come on!" He said beside me, I gripped onto her hand tighter than ever. I didn't want to let go.

"You have to run, go to 12 – the mayor will hide you as long as he can. He's a friend, he'll help you. Just stay on the train until you get to District 12."

"Say you'll come with us." I whispered to them, tears in my eyes.

They looked uncertainly at each other for a moment; before it slipped away, I saw that they didn't believe their own words as they said them.

"We'll meet you in District 12."

Mother took off her necklace for me and gently dropped it into my shaking hands. Her gentle words soothed me as she promised again and again that we would meet in District 12.

They lied well enough for two scared twins to believe them.

I wish more than anything in the world that I had forced them to join us…

Because once they closed the freight car and we were watching through the tiny splinter of light that was allowed. I saw peacekeepers everywhere, forcing my pillars of strength onto their knees, trying to make them beg. They would do no such thing. Begging was for the weak – my parents weren't weak. They were wonderful.

They clutched onto each other's hand.

I saw the gun.

We heard the gunshots that ended their lives.


End file.
